wifercize wednesday: absence makes the heart grow fungus*

* A moment of silence for The Barenaked Ladies of the 90s [...]

It's been four nights apart, but it feels like much longer.  For three years of marriage, Andrew and I have not been apart for longer than one night - partially circumstantial and partly by choice.  We're fortunate to both work in the same city at jobs that rarely require travel (or, at least, are flexible enough to allow us to travel together).

During this span of apartness I've thought a lot about couples I know who must spend weeks, even months, apart at a time.  My friend, Courtney, found out on a Tuesday that her husband, Gerritt, was being deployed on Wednesday afternoon for Libya.  For, potentially, six months.  Marriages like those, I think, have such an incredible structure of trust, support, encouragement and compassion that they deserve admiration equal to Notre Dame; each spouse adding a flourish of stained glass here, a supportive flying buttress there, resulting in a monument of love.

Our four nights have been spent restlessly: Andrew getting to sleep later than usual because his Skype conversations with me and me waking up multiple times in the night to adjust Andrew's temporary replacement.

Thanks to the magic of Skype, however, we have been able to talk to each other once (OK, three times) daily about everything from the trite details of our day to updates from the pastors meetings.
 

As you can see by the second photo, Andrew's enthusiasm for being documented waned as the conversations continued.  In fact, he informed me that if I didn't stop taking pictures (the tell-tale sound effect of which was audible to him) that he would cancel his video stream.  So I stopped.

Three sleeps left to go, which should be manageable enough.  Since I go everywhere with my MacBook clutched to me in case Andrew comes online and, this morning, called Sandra (our senior pastor) "Sandrew" by accident, I'm sure my travel companions will be happy when three sleeps have passed.

mama monday: mamacita!

Since last Tuesday I have been in México, first for five days in Cancún with Andrew (here) - which, by the way, was such a welcome romantic retreat for both of us that I'm having a hard time enjoying the luxurious hotel in which I now sit since a) Andrew's not here, b) it's not Cancún, and c) Andrew's not here - and now the next seven days will be in Cuernavaca with the rest of the pastoral team from our church.

Which would be marvelous, except that Andrew's not here.

Those of you who often spend time away from your significant other, for business or other, might be rolling your eyes at me but I DON'T CARE, YOU'RE A POO FACE.  And each of you had your first week away from each other so just think back to that time and try to lend me some sympathy, OK?

One of my favourite things to do while traveling is watch people - in airports, on the street, in hotels, in church, in the mall.  Some of the cutest scenes I've spotted have been Mexican mothers with their kids.  There is something so motherly about Latino women and they have no fear of disciplining, feeding, changing, or cuddling their children in public...and the children have no shame of their mothers.

I remember looking up the word "mamacita" a few months ago, because I often used it as an exclamation of incredulity but had no idea what it meant.  Here is what I discovered: 

Mamacita - slang

Meaning: As opposed to the diminutive “madrecita,” or “dear little mother” (an affectionate term for one’s mother), mamacita refers to a “babe” or a real sweet chick. It’s a very common come-on, or pick-up line. Examples: “Oye mamacita, que buena estás.” (“Hey, baby, you are so fine.”)

Which thrilled me since it looked to be the Spanish version of M.I.L.F.  ¡Go Spanish!  Brilliantly, Spanish has recognized the respect, adoration, and desire deserving of mothers.  Sure, they give birth, nurture, and raise their young but, unlike the stereotypical Western mother, a mamacita is all the sexier for having given birth, nurtured, and raised.  

It reminds me of a scrumptious post Melissa wrote back in November, entitled "Hot Mamas".  Go read it for yourself - it even stars my own hot mama!

I, for one, hope that motherhood won't diminish but will rather increase my overall confidence, body image, and sexiness.  There's nothing quite like watching a beautiful creation being used for a purpose it was created for.

mama monday: brood

I'm now receiving friendly reminders from people on Facebook:

So here's the thing.  Now that I work from home I have approximately 60 extra hours a week that I haven't had at my disposal since...infancy.  It's been wonderful to eat when I want, nap when I want (AND I WANT), read when I want, clean when I want, and write when I want.

Which is the problem.

I don't often feel like writing.

Or, rather, I feel like writing but I have all this time to make it GOOD.  And the more guilty I feel about not writing, the worse it is.  I had hoped all this free time would inspire me to write and write and WRITE my little fingers to nubs due to the overflow of passion and insight and optimism and revelation.

Instead, all this free time has inspired me to brood.

brood (verb)

1. think deeply about something that makes one unhappy : he brooded over his need to find a wife.
2. (of a bird) sit on (eggs) to hatch them.
   (of a fish, frog, or invertebrate) hold (developing eggs) within the body.
3. (of silence, a storm, etc.) hang or hover closely : a winter storm broods over the lake.

So it's not surprising as I sit around and "think deeply about something that makes me unhappy" that I would also be hatching, holding, and hovering over my writing without having much to show for it.  I guess it's the same as motherhood sometimes.  Lots of time spent brooding before you have a brood.

"Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven.
She says I'm always peevish afterwards."
- Lucy Honeychurch

(A Room With A View, E.M. Forester)

foto friday: I'M ALIVE

Here's proof that I have not deserted you.  I'm apparently just perfecting my skill of writing drafts.

In fact, most if not all of the drafts that I've written recently have been typed, deleted, re-typed, deleted again, and onwards in a never-ending cycle of indecision.  If only soul searching didn't act as as a costive block for my writing.

And now I've likened my writing to a bowel movement, which would make my blog...a toilet?

In a tremendous effort to write SOMETHING down - yes, I've read the comments left for me on my Facebook wall:

I figured I'd a) stick to writing and not deleting (hence, the above toilet comment), and b) start with a Foto Friday to get back into the swing of things.  How intimidating could photo captions possibly be?  We shall see.

These two parties should never meet.

Since watching this video, it has become impossible for me not to comment on things like this.

Sunbathing, part 1.

I found this book in the bookshelf of the amazing Red Room on Spadina.  The key adjective is "happily".

He's a wee bit bigger than he was last October, but we still treat him like a lap dog.  Solomon's take on it?  A+, as usual.

Sunbathing, part 2.

Andrew and I volunteered at this year's Kids Fest and I checked an item off my Bucket List: to pet a tiger.  Yes, it was everything you thought it was.

Hipster Cat, a portrait.

A wonderful little cafe on Annette called The Good Neighbour.  G'head and check it out if you live/work/shop in the area.

Because Hipster Cat is too good for the couch.

Noah joined a west side gangsta crew early.

Someone does not understand personal space.

Andrew celebrated his 31st birthday on March 6th of this year, and we had friends over for a mammoth meal followed by...Nintendo Wii.  Andrew said he felt like he was 15 again.  But 15 drinking wine.

I can't decide which is the best aspect of this portrait.  The mullet?  The pug?  The leather jacket emblazoned with mountain, lake, and giant bald eagle?